


sweetheart

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29458746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Dean’s exhausted. It’s been hours and hours and the balls of his feet are aching, complaining up to the nines and he’s sure he’ll have callouses tomorrow where the heel rubs up with every step.The afterparty to their wedding.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	sweetheart

There’s glitter on the floor; Dean doesn’t know how the fuck it got there since he’d veto-ed glitter a long, long, _long_ time ago, before they’d decided on a colour scheme or a dinner plan or a first dance song, seriously, which son of a bitch decided to bring in the craft herpes, one thing was certain—they were _not_ going to be invited to the afterparty.

Though, maybe the afterparty is happening right now, in which case, they’d better be long gone. 

He scowls; tries valiantly to shake off the bits and pieces of sparkly confetti off of his dress pants. They’d cost over seventy bucks, and if you’d told him months ago that he’d spend any amount over twenty on a piece of clothing, or step foot within a boutique, he’d punch you in the face. The things he does for love.

Which apparently goes as far as: standing hand-in-hand in front of the paint chip display at a local Lowe’s, taste-testing tiny little cakes and wedges of cheese, willingly getting fitted into a monkey suit and being pushed and poked and prodded, not-so-willingly _losing weight—_ okay, scratch that, the wedding planner had suggested it and Dean had to remind himself that they’d paid her good money that didn’t include a hospital bill—not to mention all the standing and talking and the stupid tradition that said they couldn’t see each other the night before, which was just plain mean, and all the dances he’d doled out for the guests to cheesy 80s love ballads until the balls of his feet ached when, really, all he really wanted to do was to dance with Cas.

Speaking of Cas…

“There you are,” Dean says, making his way towards him with a casual swagger like he hasn’t been watching him the whole night.

Castiel lifts his head from where he was meticulously picking out all the pretzels from the snack mix. Dean hates the pretzels; his husband is certifiably insane. “Hello, Dean,” he responds. His voice is a little hoarse, a little low, like he’s been drinking too much beer and talking the whole night.

“Having a good time?” Dean asks, stupidly. Castiel has lost the jacket sometime during the night, his dress shirt rumpled at the collar and half-turned up. Dean can’t help himself; steps closer and reaches up to tug at his collar gently and smooth it out. His fingers brush up against warm skin and he shivers even though it’s burning up in the ballroom, all moving bodies and laughter. At the last second before he draws away, Castiel turns his head to press a kiss to Dean’s knuckles. He smiles and Dean grins back, blurts, “Dance with me?”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to dance again for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah, well. That was half an hour ago, and it was right after dancing with Charlie, and Charlie is on _crack,_ I swear, she has infinite energy.”

“I was exhausted just looking at you two,” Castiel agrees.

Dean raises his eyebrows like, _See?_ and takes a step back, dips his head down slightly, extends a graceful hand (or as graceful as he can be with the buzz of champagne fading away with the dregs of exhaustion seeping back in) towards Castiel. 

Castiel twists around to grab another pretzel from the table. He pops it into his mouth before taking Dean’s hand and letting himself get dragged all the way across the room, the few remaining bedraggled guests easily parting in their wake.

On their way there, Dean catches the eye of Ash, who has somehow meandered his way to becoming the DJ of the hour at the corner of the room. He shoots Dean a thumbs-up and Dean smiles back, just a little, when the current song (some poppy jazzy tune he can’t place) fades off and is replaced with soft guitar strumming. He doesn’t know this song, but it still sounds oddly familiar—slow and sweet and cozy.

“Do you know this song?” he asks Castiel, who tilts his head to the side, listening for a moment, and then nods.

“The Lumineers,” he says. “They’re an indie pop band. Sam requested it, I think.”

“‘Course he did,” Dean mumbles. Leave it to his brother to choose all the girly love songs.

Maybe he should thank him instead, though. Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand, gently, and tugs him in closer until their bodies are flush together; wraps an arm around his soft waist. In response, Castiel rests his head upon Dean’s shoulder, exhale tickling his neck. Wordlessly, they begin to sway, so delicately they’re almost standing still. Initially, Dean had thought that this—all of it—standing together, swaying together, not a single word spoken—would be awkward and uncomfortable as hell, but it amazes him at how wrong he is. Castiel fits in his arms like a puzzle piece slotting in place, and Dean can just close his eyes and hold him, revel and bask in the weight, the bulk, of his husband so close. He can hardly hear the music over the buzz of his own contentment.

It’s been hours and hours. The balls of his feet are aching, complaining up to the nines and he’s sure he’ll have callouses tomorrow where the heel rubs up with every step. His eyes, closed, breathe an exhausted sigh of relief. They choose to remain closed, would prefer to stay closed, actually, for the rest of tonight. Preferably in a bed. With Castiel next to him. Right this instant. Dean’s not as young as he used to be, and he’s never felt it more acutely. But there are guests to politely chase away and leftover food to pack and store in the fridge for morning-afters and glitter to sweep off the floor, so when the song inevitably draws to an end, he counts to three before reluctantly pulling open his eyelids. Castiel gazes back at him, blue eyes hazy with the same thoughts. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Dean whispers; doesn’t know why he’s whispering.

Castiel frowns, responds in a murmur. “Dean, I will not allow you to ‘play hooky’ at our own wedding.”

“Come on,” Dean coaxes. “Ellen will take care of it. I’m pretty sure she’s herded, like, a dozen people to the Roadhouse to keep the party going there already. She can handle a few more.”

“And what about the rest of the cleanup?”

“We’ll do it tomorrow. Or, never. Who cares, we only rented this place anyway.”

“Dean,” Castiel chastises, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips and Dean wants, so badly, to lean in and kiss it. So he does. It’s amazing that he can do that at all—still knocks him off his feet that he can do things like this and Castiel just _lets_ him. Loves it, even. It’s a sentiment that should’ve been long washed away by now—they’ve been dating-not-dating for so long he can’t make heads or tails of any of it, known each other even longer. They’re _married,_ for fuck’s sake. And something like that, see, it just knocks him over. That someone like Cas would even give him a second thought. It scares him to death sometimes.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, because tonight, all of Dean’s defences have been carefully and strategically battered into shreds and spilled all over the dancefloor. He can imagine what his eyes look like.

“Nothing,” Dean breathes, because they might be married, but there are some things that won’t be solved in a vow, a kiss, and two steel rings. He knows that better than anything. It’s the resolution that they’ll have time to work through them that really matters, and Dean knows that they have time, now—all the time in the world. So he gently gathers up all his flickering insecurities and tells them to fuck off because tonight is his wedding night and Castiel Winchester is in his arms and nothing—nothing—will ruin this. “I just—I love you, you know that, right?” 

Castiel’s eyes do that thing where they just soften and melt. “Yes, Dean, I know,” he says, not dismissing the fact that they’ve said it to each other for months, now, of course Cas knows; indulging Dean, and it only makes Dean love him more, the hot pulse of it grow stronger until it's pressing all up and around him and making it difficult to breathe. “I love you too.”

Dean sighs. Lets it settle into his bones and trickle through his veins and sink into his skin, like a tattoo or a scar. “Yeah,” he says, and he suddenly feels like he’s teetering on a knife’s edge to crying, which is just—ridiculous.

He kisses Castiel again, just because he can. Pulls back. “So, is that a yes?”

Castiel looks tired, too. There are dark circles under his eyes that, despite Claire and Charlie’s combined efforts, makeup couldn’t completely cover up. Did he also not get any sleep last night, Dean wonders—tossing and turning in the sheets because they’re too cold, too empty. Fuck that tradition wholeheartedly, _seriously._

“Fine,” Castiel says, and the word is barely out before Dean is steering them towards the exit doors. “But we’re coming back the next morning to clean everything up. And to apologize to the guests for leaving our own wedding without saying goodbye—Dean, wait, are you sure this is a good idea—“

Too late; they’re already out the door. The air is freezing and both of them gasp a little as it pummels them in shock. 

“Best idea I’ve had,” Dean tells him. “And we totally did; it was an Irish farewell.”

Castiel flattens his lips. His eyes flicker back to the doors, where the murmur of guests and soft music drifts and curls out into the outdoors. When they settle back on Dean, there’s an aura of resignation in them. “Where to, then?”

“Where do you think?” Dean says. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. Home—bed—now.” He comes in closer and wraps his arms around Castiel from behind, crossing his hands together at Castiel’s stomach. “Imagine this: you finally get to take off those shoes.”

Castiel’s eyes nearly flutter closed at the thought. He turns in the cradle of Dean’s arms, his hands coming up to rest, lightly, on Dean’s chest. “I changed my mind,” he informs him. “This is the best idea you’ve had.”

Dean grins. “Told ya.”

The walk to the Impala is silent. They walk hand-in-hand, Castiel being the first one to slip his hand into Dean’s, with Dean immediately holding on tight and not letting go, not even to fish out his keys or open the car door. They’re a ten, fifteen minute drive away from home, and Dean makes it in eight. It’s nearly three in the morning, after all, the only cars in the road scarce and far between. Plus, the _Just Married_ sign Castiel insisted on placing across the license plate on the trunk would probably discourage any cops. Dean doesn’t let go of Castiel’s hand the whole time, one hand on the steering wheel; he can feel the grooves of their rings digging into his fingers the harder he squeezes.

“I’m going to sleep for a week,” Castiel murmurs, sighs, curled up in the passenger side.

“Hey,” Dean says softly back. He tugs on Castiel’s hand, just a little, until he gets the message and scoots across the seat to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder instead. “If you fall asleep on me, I’m carrying you over the banister.”

Castiel huffs at that. “Why does it have to be you carrying me?”

“I told you already. I’m taller.”

Castiel sounds marginally more awake than a few seconds ago. “Well, _I’m_ the one who tops.”

And Dean, well. Dean doesn’t really have a proper response to that. “Go back to sleep,” he says eventually, but they’re already home, the Impala steadily pulling into the garage, and Castiel smacks his lips and grumbles something incomprehensible before straightening to exit the car. His eyes are bleary and Dean sympathizes completely—it’s almost like there’s a string, pulling them towards their bedroom from the inside of the car. 

Together, they stumble out the car, into their home, up the stairs—neither of them carrying the other because if they’d tried, they were so tired they’d probably drop them, and wouldn’t that be a nice end to their wedding night?—into their bedroom. Dean unbuckles his belt, slides out of his jacket, clothes puddling on the carpet along with Castiel’s as he follows suit. Castiel yanks on his tie with a frustrated growl; Dean chuckles and comes closer. He undoes it for him while Castiel unbuttons Dean’s dress shirt with clumsy fingers, one by one.

Dean barely has a mind to flip back the covers before Castiel dives into bed, swaddles himself into the blankets and curls up next to Dean with a happy sigh.

“Longest day ever,” Castiel breathes, squirming briefly, cold toes prodding against Dean’s ankles, before finding a position he’s satisfied with; halfway on top of Dean and wearily sprawled, just melting, moulding, into Dean.

Dean laughs quietly. Halfway out, it turns into a loose, sleepy sigh. Last night, alone and annoyed and missing Castiel like crazy, Dean had sworn up and down that there was no way they _weren’t_ going to have sex tonight; now, though, he doesn’t think he can lift an arm for anything more than to let Castiel snuggle in closer.

“Cas,” he murmurs, wondering how to tell this.

“Shh,” Castiel murmurs back. “Sleep now.”

Dean smiles into Castiel’s hair, because Cas just _gets_ him. “Exactly,” he says. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Mm. Goodnight, Dean.” Castiel leaves a lazy, smacking kiss on Dean’s shoulder before his lips go slack with sleep.

There’s flecks of glitter in Castiel’s hair. Dean kisses him back, right on his temple. “Love you,” he whispers again, so softly there’s barely any air. Just because he can.

Curled up and wrapped around his husband, he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes okay I finally gave in and wrote a fic for the wedding. I hope you enjoyed! Comments are like delicious discounted Valentine's Day chocolates to me.
> 
> Happy (late) Valentine's Day/DeanCas Wedding Day <3


End file.
